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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25230745">punisher</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/totouya/pseuds/totouya'>totouya</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M, Unrequited Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:48:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,973</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25230745</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/totouya/pseuds/totouya</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You look at your phone’s home screen, glowing with a list of post notifications from all of his social media accounts. You think of the crumpled little blush envelope at the bottom of your school bag, and the way your only extracurricular activity in high school has been his fan club, and you wonder if this is what it’s like.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Oikawa Tooru/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>punisher</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Your phone hiccups with a notification, rattling in its slick gel case. You grab it so frantically that it nearly slips out of your hand</p><p>Your skin is still searing from your shower, your hair splaying droplets onto your comforter, your floor, even a rogue drop plops against your phone screen. It is quickly squished under your thumb, calloused from scrolling, as it bounces against the device in a practiced routine. Your features are tinted blue-white by the screen’s glow, a beacon in your dark bedroom.  </p><p>The photo-sharing site’s logo dances onscreen for the briefest of moments, and then there it is. A new post by Oikawa Tooru, still clad in his volleyball uniform. His arm is slung around Iwaizumi Hajime’s shoulders, and even though he’s clearly drenched in sweat, he’s beaming into the lens. <em>Posted a few seconds ago.</em><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Your heart spurs. It was from the Interhigh tournament earlier that day, you recognize the gymnasium. The lights hanging high but your adrenaline higher, your fingers curling into the edge of the bleachers. Flanked on either side by fellow fan club members, you had cheered until you were hoarse for each point that Aoba Josai scored, particularly ones earned by Oikawa’s monstrous serves.</p><p>Tugging your towel tighter around your chest, you try to imagine Oikawa in his own room. Sprawled on his bed, poring over his phone, waiting for his photo to upload. Surely, you could direct message him and there would be no reason for him not to respond within seconds. Congratulate him on a well-earned victory, offer words of encouragement for their upcoming match against Shiratorizawa.</p><p>Instead, you toss your phone onto your bed, Oikawa’s smile still flashing on the screen.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>There’s a pink envelope in the bottom of your school bag. Crumpled and frayed at the corners, crushed under the weight of your schoolbooks. It has been there since your first year of high school, the heart-shaped sticker used to seal its contents still untouched. Inside of it is rose-colored stationery, meticulous script and juvenile doodles detailing your undying devotion to the cute first-year setter on the volleyball team.</p><p>“You should confess already,” your friend whispers to you during lunch the day after the Interhigh semifinals, when your neck is craned to look out the classroom window, zeroed in on that crop of brown hair in the courtyard. You only divert your attention long enough to give her an incredulous look, and she sighs. “None of the girls in our class care as much as you do.”</p><p>You fidget with the hem of your skirt and say nothing, but you know it’s true. The night before every game day, Valentines’ Day, birthday, you would fall into a manic meticulousness when it came to making chocolates or other sweets for the setter (and milk bread – you consider yourself a milk bread connoisseur at this point). You always kept your gifts anonymous, tucking them into his section of the school <em>getabako</em> in the wee hours of the morning when no one would see. You just want to make him smile.</p><p>Even now, you’re constantly watching as he strolls around campus, desperate for another glimpse of that golden boy smile. The other girls joke that you have an “Oikawa-kun radar.” You try to laugh when they say it, but a small, ugly part of you remembers the inklings of shame you had felt when you spied on him during walks home, when you watched from a distance while he taught his nephew how to play volleyball at the community center. It had taken years, but a mixture of social media and careful observance helped you learn Oikawa’s schedule, down to the ramen shop he occasionally visits with his mother on Sunday evenings.</p><p>You always find your mind drifting back to the afternoons spent watching him practice from the gymnasium windows, when stars begin to dapple the sky and Iwaizumi has to threaten and berate him to get him to leave.</p><p>Those quieter moments, the briefest of glimpses past that pretty-boy bravado, when Oikawa is grimacing and clutching his bad knee and it looks like something black is opening inside of his mind, they grasp you like none other. This tender despair, a sight that probably only a handful of people have been privy to, and yet you have managed to see it. You’ve managed to look past <em>Oikawa-kun</em> and see what drives those mid-game glowers and punishing spikes. You didn’t think it was possible for you to love him any more than you already did, but those moments make it feel as if your heart is bursting.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>You have not missed any of Aoba Josai’s games in the three years that Oikawa has been on the team, including their practice matches. That avid expression he wore in the middle of an intense game both terrified and enthralled you, left you desperate for another glimpse of such liveliness. Watching him in those moments, those split seconds where he is airborne and striking the ball with a staggering amount of strength, you wonder what it is like to care about something so much.</p><p>Then you look at your phone’s home screen, glowing with a list of post notifications from all of his social media accounts. You think of the crumpled little blush envelope at the bottom of your schoolbag, the way your only extracurricular activity in high school has been his fan club, and you wonder if <em>this</em> is what it’s like.</p><p>To let something consume so much of you until it becomes an extension of yourself, until you aren’t sure if you could exist – if you would <em>want</em> to exist – without it.</p><p>But there’s a hopelessness and haplessness to it. You think of his other fervent admirers, who seem to constantly nip at his heels and vie for his attention, their mouths shining and color popping high on their cheekbones. <em>Me. Me. Pick me.</em></p><p>It feels like someone is driving a stake into your heart each time he regards them with that radiant smile and a cordial conversation, but you never join their ranks. The few times you considered it, uncertainty had paralyzed you in place, stolen the breath from your lungs, and you thought you might puke from anticipation.</p><p>You’re so unyielding in your admiration, so fervently smitten that it nearly makes you feel sick, but what would you <em>actually</em> do if you ever caught Oikawa Tooru’s attention? What would you do if those warm brown eyes ever found yours in a crowd, if his tall form ever loomed over you, if his calloused hands ever brushed against yours?</p><p>Each time you had considered such things, had imagined his hands skittering around your waist, his mouth hot on yours, you became too flustered to dwell on them for longer than a moment. If such things ever happened, those feelings in your chest would get so big that you think you would just die.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes, it feels as if Oikawa is the only living thing in your life. The only source of animation and vigor, popping, breathing, moving. He is always pushing at the boundaries of this world, his dreams so much bigger than this little corner of Miyagi. His eyes focused on the horizon, his breath jagged with the desperation to break, break, break through whatever is in front of him, a barrier that no one else could see.</p><p>It’s only fitting that your first ever encounter begins with him quite literally knocking the wind out of you.</p><p>Rounding a corner in Aoba Josai’s maze-like halls, your eyes focused on the floor – they always are whenever Oikawa isn’t around to admire – it’s as if you had walked directly into a wall. His sturdy form, firm and unmoving. Colliding with his chest sends you stumbling backward. You are preparing to rush out a litany of apologies until your eyes drift upward, and you realize who it is you have bumped into.</p><p>“Ah, I’m sorry!” He says, grabbing at your shoulders to steady you. His tone is light, but the concern – the concern for <em>you – </em>is still there. “I didn’t see you there.”</p><p>Your only response is to gape up at him. Your eyes are shuttering open and shut, like you’re unsure of what just happened, of what is currently happening. His big hands on your shoulders, holding you in place, until they fall back to his sides and he gives you that famous, golden-boy smile.</p><p>You wished your heart would stop beating so fast. A little hummingbird in your chest, a thrumming so loud that it nearly drowns out Oikawa’s voice when he asks if you’re okay. Your face is warm, so warm that you feel faint.</p><p>Your friend’s words resonate in your mind. <em>“You should confess already. None of the girls in our class care as much as you do.”</em></p><p>Your mind jumps to that damned envelope in the bottom of your bag, and it suddenly feels a piece of lead, weighing you down. <em>This is it. This is my chance.</em></p><p>“Um… I…” You manage to stammer out, and you realize that this is the first thing you have ever said to him. In the three years you have fixated on him, surely you have seen his face more times than you’ve bothered to see your own, but you have never even mustered a passing greeting at him in the hallways.</p><p>Your hand is shaking as you begin to fish through your bag, not even wincing when a rogue pen jabs into your palm. <em>This is it, this is it.</em></p><p>A voice that you recognize to be Iwaizumi’s calls Oikawa’s name, a firm rasp from the other side of the hall.  “I’m not covering for your ass if Coach asks why you’re late for practice,”</p><p>Oikawa’s eyes drift over your head to wince at his teammate, his voice now carrying that high and playful tone that you love so much. “I’m coming, I’m coming, Iwa-chan~”</p><p>He steps around you and, just like that, the moment slips between your fingers.</p><p>Your eyes follow his gait as he half-jogs to catch up with Iwaizumi, his perfectly coiffed hair bouncing with each movement.</p><p>Before they disappear behind the double doors at the end of the hall, Oikawa turns to give you a playful wink. “See you later, cutie~” And, God, it feels like something is squeezing your chest so tight, twisting what is there.</p><p>The doors shutter closed behind them, and you’re all alone in the hallway, your hand still shoved into your bag.</p><p>Crushing disappointment and bubbling euphoria are warring inside of you, the feelings so overwhelming that they ache. Your free hand clutches at your heart, willing it to slow down. You’re terrified of this feeling, terrified of what you might do to feel it again.</p><p><em>It was like staring into the sun.</em> So resplendent and bright that you can only bear it for short intervals, and you’re left squinting and half-blind afterward.</p><p>Finally, you feel your fingertips graze that little piece of paper in the bottom of your bag. You fish it out, and you finally look at it for the first time in three years. </p><p>It is so frayed and wrinkled that Oikawa’s name on the front of it is nearly incomprehensible. Nonetheless, you let your fingertips gingerly trace the kanji, let one of your nails slip under an edge of the heart-shaped sticker. Even now, with your head throbbing and your legs trembling, you can recite the entire letter from memory.</p><p>You don’t know why you suddenly feel like crying.  </p><p>On your way out of the school, you toss the envelope into the wastebasket by the entrance, and you try to ignore the lump that forms in your throat.</p><p>If you ever told Oikawa Tooru how you feel about him, you’re not sure if you would ever be able to stop.</p><p> </p>
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